


If It Ain't Broke, It Will Be

by J (j_writes)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_writes/pseuds/J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five things Ray Vecchio and Ray Kowalski broke before they moved in together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Ain't Broke, It Will Be

**Author's Note:**

> written for Slidellra for DS Seekrit Santa 2006.

_1) The zipper of Ray Vecchio's pants on the occasion of his first blowjob at work._

There's this _thing_ that Kowalski does with his fingers.

It's this…Ray doesn't really know how to describe it, but it's something he does when he has things in his hand. He always has to be _playing_ with something, _touching_ something, _doing_ something.

It drives Ray up the wall.

Kowalski has gotten to the point where he'll do it just to piss Ray off now. Ray will be watching him and Kowalski will look up, grin. Then he'll sit there, twisting a pencil between his fingers and watching Ray watching him as his bracelet catches the light and his hand moves in a way that shouldn't be sexy, but is.

Hell, everything about Kowalski is sexy.

The problem is, Ray can't look at those fingers anymore without thinking of them on him, _remembering_ them on him, the way they wrapped around his wrist and steered him into the supply closet just like Benny used to. Except it wasn't like Benny used to at all, because when Kowalski got him in there, he had Ray pressed up against the door before he could even open his mouth, lips covering Ray's, and fingers—god, those fingers—tugging impatiently at his belt, the zipper on his pants.

He heard the rip when Kowalski tugged too hard, and at any other time he'd have gotten a punch to the face or worse for fucking up Ray's clothes, but he was on his knees, and his lips were around Ray's cock, and his tongue was doing things that required an advanced degree in porn, and…well, punching was the last thing on Ray's mind.

So he'd just tipped his head back against the door and tried not to make enough noise for them to hear him clear across the city while Kowalski gave him the best blowjob of his life.

When it was over, Kowalski reached onto the shelf over his head and dumped a handful of paper clips into Ray's hand.

"To keep your pants up," he said, and left.

 

 _2) Ray Kowalski's glasses, in the line of duty._

Kowalski didn't complain when it happened, because he seemed to think he was too much of a man for that.

He wasn't too much of a man to make Ray do his paperwork for him.

"Vecchio, I can't see the paper."

"Vecchio, _you're_ the one with two working eyes, here."

"Vecchio, did you not notice the part where I threw myself in front of a runaway murderer for you, sacrificing my glasses in the process?"

"Actually, what I noticed was you _tripping_ into the path of a runaway murderer, and _dropping_ your glasses," Ray answered, not looking up from the papers.

That shut him up. For a few minutes.

"You know, there's a pretty good chance you wouldn't even be _sitting_ there if it wasn't for me."

"You want more coffee, don't you?"

Kowalski beamed and held out his mug. "With chocolate."

"Hey, if you can't see enough to get to the coffeemaker, that means I'm driving the GTO tonight, right?"

Kowalski clutched his mug to his chest and scowled, and that was the end of that.

 

 _3) The wall between Kowalski's living room and bedroom (although Kowalski insists it's only dented, and not actually broken)._

Ray recognized the handwriting as soon as he saw the letter, and it took him a minute to realize that it wasn't addressed to him.

"Kowalski. Mail," he said, and tossed it across the desk at him. Kowalski caught it, looked at it for a few moments, then stuffed it into his pocket.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Ray asked, and Kowalski shot him a glare that could cut glass.

"Fuck off, Vecchio," he said, and that was the end of it.

Ray didn't mention the letter again, and Kowalski didn't either, but as the hours passed, Ray could see him reaching into his pocket every so often when he thought no one was looking, touching the paper like it was a good luck charm.

He brought Kowalski coffee the next morning before work, and there was a new dent in the wall of his living room and a crumpled and stained piece of paper lying in the top of his trash can, surrounded by beer bottles.

Ray looked at the dent, and Kowalski saw him looking, and neither of them spoke of it again.

 

 _4) The shower rod in Room 17 of a Motel 6 halfway between Springfield and Chicago._

It was one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

 _5) Three pieces of Ma Vecchio’s china, on three separate occasions._

Kowalski always insisted on doing the dishes when Ray cooked.

"I can help," he said the first time, "I'm helpful!" A few seconds later he dropped a teacup on the floor and Ray took over.

The second time it happened, it might have been Ray's fault.

Because Kowalski was standing there in front of the sink, elbow deep in soapy water, and he was dancing. There was no music, except what he heard in his head, but he was moving slowly back and forth to some kind of rhythm. And Ray was sitting there at the table, wine glass in hand, watching, until he couldn't just watch anymore and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around Kowalski from behind and resting his chin against Kowalski's shoulder.

Neither of them even paid attention to the sound of a plate shattering against the sink.

The third time, Ray yelled at him, because they were his mother's dishes and enough was enough.

"Well maybe if you didn't still live with your mother, I wouldn't have to break her dishes all the damn time!" Kowalski yelled back, and that just showed what he knew about taking care of your family.

He left in a huff, and they were pissy at each other at work for the next week and a half until they couldn't even remember what they were fighting about in the first place. The next time it came up, Kowalski said a little sulkily, "You know, you could use _my_ dishes," and Ray laughed in his face.

"Your six dollar frying pan and cracked measuring cup? I'm good, Kowalski, but I'm not _that_ good."

Two weeks later they ended up back at Kowalski's place after a stakeout, and there were boxes all over the kitchen. "Moving?" he asked, and Kowalski shrugged.

"Something like that, maybe," he said, and reached into the fridge for beers while Ray started peeking into the boxes. Pans. Dishes. Silverware that didn't look like it had come from five different yard sales.

Kowalski leaned against the fridge and watched as Ray made his way from box to box. "Shelf space is included," he finally said, waving a hand at the empty cabinets around them. "You know, if you want it."

Ray wanted it.

He moved in two weeks later, and the first night he was there he made dinner. Kowalski started washing the dishes afterwards, but they ended up in bed instead, pots and pans still piled up on the countertops.

"Next investment?" Ray said the next morning as they stood in the doorway clutching coffee cups and looking mournfully at the kitchen. "A dishwasher."

"Agreed," said Kowalski, and he shuffled back to bed.


End file.
